A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  “You’ve used up today’s porridge and tomorrow’s, from the looks of it.”

  Anna’s cheeks reddened. “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  Mrs. Griffith crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at Anna. “I don’t know what your housekeeper taught you, but money’s tight round here and the rationing isn’t making things easier, you know.” She ladled porridge into bowls, setting each on the table with an irate thunk.

  Anna looked down at her breakfast, her eyes burning. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Mrs. Griffith offered no reply. William reached under the table and found Anna’s hand. She took a tiny spoonful of porridge. It tasted bitter. Or perhaps that was just the taste of the morning.

  It was a cross threesome that made its way to school in the still-pelting rain. Anna’s unpleasant encounter with Mrs. Griffith had left them all irritable.

  Edmund scratched his neck. “Those mattresses make me itch.”

  “At least yours is dry,” William said.

  “I don’t like it here,” Anna put in.

  “None of us do,” William said, “but we’ve got to make the best of it. Mrs. Norton made it sound like there aren’t a lot of choices. Look,” he added with a sigh, “we’ll head to the library again after lunch, all right?”

  By the time the afternoon had come, the library was indeed a welcome sight. A fire crackled in the corner, and the children thought they had never seen anything so heavenly. Anna, who had taken her time with A Little Princess as best she could, had only a chapter to go. She found she could hold out no longer and retrieved the precious book from her rucksack, intent on finishing there and then.

  Mrs. Müller appeared from the history section, pushing a small rolling cart. “I say, children, I have my few regulars, but none so regular as you.” She took in the children’s dripping coats. “It’s awful out there, isn’t it? Why don’t you warm yourselves a bit?” She retreated with her cart as the children fairly ran to the fireplace.

  Edmund proceeded to remove his shoes. He lay on his back on the floor and propped his stockinged feet on the fireplace grate.

  “Edmund!” William chided. “Put your shoes back on! And sit up! It’s not as if you’re in your bedroom, are you?”

  Edmund stretched. “That’s right, because our bedroom doesn’t have a fire, does it? Only a hole in the roof letting the rain in. I’m half frozen, and my feet hurt in those shoes.” He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands.

  Anna, who had already had more than enough reprimands for one day, watched with some trepidation as Mrs. Müller reappeared from the back room. She expected that reclining in one’s socks in the library would be frowned upon.

  The librarian took in the scene. “Well, I daresay this is the first I’ve seen anyone go stocking-footed in the library!”

  Edmund tasted the all-too-familiar tang of shame as he sat up.

  Mrs. Müller turned to William and Anna. “I encourage you children to follow your brother’s example.”

  Anna breathed a sigh of relief and wasted no time in removing her shoes. William set off to choose a new book as Edmund raised his eyebrows, grinned, and stuck out his tongue at his brother’s retreating form.

  When the children arrived at Livingston Lane that afternoon, they were met by a red-faced Mrs. Griffith. “It’s about time!” she shouted over the din of Robert’s wails. “At it with the books again, were you?” She gestured toward the baby in his basket. “Watch the children,” she said. “I’ve got to go to my neighbor lady about something.”

  Penny, Jane, and Helen appeared from the kitchen as Anna retrieved the shrieking baby from his basket. She did her best to quiet him, rocking and pacing, but the child was foul-smelling. She expected that this problem could only be resolved by a clean diaper; however, none of the children knew the first thing about such goings-on.

  “Didn’t you ever have to do this for me, William?” Anna said.

  “I wasn’t old enough to do this when you were still in diapers.”

  “Right.” Anna sent Edmund to search for a clean cloth. She laid the shrieking child back in his basket and proceeded to inspect the construction of the existing diaper.

  William looked over her shoulder. “Looks like how you wrap up a sandwich for a picnic.”

  Edmund, back with the clean cloth, wrinkled his nose. “Pretty awful sandwich.”

  “Well,” Anna said, taking a deep breath, “I guess there’s nothing for it.” Removing the pins, she peeled the fetid thing back an inch or two and, unwilling to inspect the scene too closely, used the existing diaper to clean the baby’s bottom as best she could. Holding her breath, she rolled the offensive cloth into a ball and held it out to Edmund to dispose of. He refused, leaving William to remove the mess to the scullery.

  Hesitating over the writhing little body, the children learned a valuable lesson about the importance of speed when diapering a baby. A stream suddenly arced from the exposed infant, hitting Edmund squarely in the chest. He froze, then began to hop from one foot to the other in an outraged dance. Red-faced with disgust, he could only groan at the vile indignity of it all.

  Penny, Jane, and Helen found this show tremendously entertaining, and had it not been for their giggling, Anna and William might have been able to contain themselves. As it was, all but Edmund dissolved into hysterics, laughing until their sides hurt. This made it difficult for Anna to fold and pin the clean diaper, but she managed the job, and Robert was blessedly quiet at last.

  That night was bath night, and while the notion of an only-weekly bath may hold grimy appeal to some, it is telling that even Edmund—who generally saw little harm in a thin layer of dirt—was glad of the opportunity. A good soak in warm water sounded lovely. Bath time at Livingston Lane, however, was hardly a cozy affair.

  A tin tub was set by the coal fire and filled with water heated on the stove. The household took turns scrubbing themselves in the meager privacy provided by a sheet tacked to the ceiling. Mrs. Griffith went first with the baby. Then that water was dumped and a new batch heated for Penny, then Jane and Helen together, then our young threesome, each in their turn. The children had read stories about such baths and were at least glad to learn that they weren’t expected to use the same water as the person before. All told, bath night was a three-hour affair for the cramped household of eight souls, and the children retired upstairs cleaner but shivering and exhausted. William’s pallet was still damp from the previous night’s rain, so he and Edmund pushed the other two together for the three of them to share. Edmund grumbled at the crowding but was secretly glad of their huddled warmth against the chill.

  William read aloud to them, but even the magic of the story provided little distraction. When he finished, Anna’s voice came from under the blanket.

  “Tell me something, William.”

  William wanted only to close his eyes and drift away, but he searched the corners of his mind for something suitable. He found he could think of little more than bath night. “When they got married, Mum and Dad had towels with their names sewn on.”

  Anna’s voice came from under the blanket again. “Their names?”

  “Well, their initials.”

  “Why?” Edmund asked. “Were they afraid someone might steal their towels?”

  “No, silly,” William said. “That’s just what grown-ups do.”

  The children fell asleep at last, wondering at the gross misalignment of adults’ priorities.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday offered little opportunity for the children to lie about, as Mrs. Griffith announced that they were to do the shopping for her. “I’ve got a list. You’re to go to the grocer and greengrocer, as well as the bakery and butcher.” Mr. Forrester, the children thought, with no small degree of anxiety at the prospect of such a reunion.

  “Here’s the money,” Mrs. Griffith said, handing William a small coin purse. “And the ration books. Mind you carry back a receipt for everything
you buy, and don’t even think about getting anything extra.” She looked at Anna, who felt cut through her heart.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered. “I mean, no, ma’am. We won’t buy anything extra.”

  The children had rarely been part of shopping days back in London, and when they had, it was always with Miss Collins in charge. None of them shared this inexperience with Mrs. Griffith as they buttoned their coats against the chill and set off.

  William read the list as they walked, noting that Mrs. Griffith had misspelled margarine. They began at the grocer, easily identified by the line snaking from the front door to the corner beyond. It was about three-quarters of an hour before they made their way inside. The children set to work finding barley, porridge oats, margarine, and milk.

  “No jam?” Edmund asked, looking over William’s shoulder at the list.

  William double-checked. “No jam.”

  Edmund looked again. “Perhaps she just forgot to write that down?” After all, a boy can dream.

  That stop done, the children carried on to the greengrocer, where a similar line awaited them. William was glad of the chance to set down the bottles of milk he was carrying, which were already twice as heavy as they had been at the grocer, he was sure. Once inside, the children found cabbage and potatoes. Onions, however, were nowhere to be seen.

  The greengrocer, a rabbity man in a white apron, told them there were none. “We’ve got leeks, though, which can be substituted if your mum’s creative.”

  Not the first word that comes to mind to describe Mrs. Griffith, Edmund thought.

  “Do leeks cost the same as onions?” William asked.

  “They’re dearer.”

  William turned to Edmund and Anna. “What are we to do, then? Turn up with nothing, or substitute the leeks?” His siblings only shrugged. William swallowed and turned back to the counter. “We’ll take the leeks.”

  The bakery was next. By now it was well past noon and the children’s stomachs grumbled horribly as they opened the door and were met by the heavenly smell inside. “I didn’t know this was going to take all day,” Edmund said. “Surely she doesn’t expect us to go till teatime without anything. Can’t we just share a slice of bread or something?”

  William shook his head. “Not unless you’d like to be the one to explain it to her.”

  Anna’s stomach growled audibly.

  Mr. Forrester’s butcher shop was last. “She wants trotters and liver,” William said, checking the list.

  “Unspeakable,” Edmund whispered. He felt rather ill, and he wasn’t certain whether it was the idea of the trotters and liver or of seeing Mr. Forrester that was unsettling his stomach.

  “I have to go to the toilet,” Anna said. She looked at the line of shoppers ahead of them and shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Can’t you wait until we’re back at Mrs. Griffith’s?” William asked.

  Anna crossed her legs.

  It was nearly half an hour before the children got to the front of the line. Mr. Forrester was behind the counter in a white apron gone bloody from the day’s work. He startled when he saw them. “Good afternoon, children,” he said with a gruff sort of smile. “I hope you’re all three keeping well in your new billet?”

  “Yes, sir,” William answered.

  “Who are you staying with?”

  “We’re with Mrs. Griffith, a few lanes back, past the school.”

  “Ah, right. I know Sally Griffith.”

  “She’s asked us to buy trotters and liver,” William continued. He laid the ration books and what remained of Mrs. Griffith’s money on the counter.

  Mr. Forrester looked at the money. “That’s not enough for both the trotters and the liver, children. Is that all she’s given you?”

  “It is,” William said, looking at his feet. It was unpleasant, this sudden awareness of want. “This is the first time we’ve done the shopping ourselves, so perhaps we haven’t chosen correctly. There were no onions, you see, and…” It occurred to William that Mr. Forrester likely didn’t give two figs about the onions. He trailed off midsentence.

  Mr. Forrester looked over the children’s shoulders at the customers behind them, then leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. “We’ll just let it go, then, shall we? I’ll get you Mrs. Griffith’s trotters, and we’ll throw in the liver free.”

  None of the children knew how to respond, other than to offer their bewildered thanks. Edmund couldn’t believe he was thanking anyone for free liver.

  Mr. Forrester disappeared for a moment, returning with two packages neatly wrapped in brown paper. “Right, children. Here you are.” He paused, lowering his voice and leaning toward them again. “I’m sorry about what happened, back at the house.”

  What did Mr. Forrester mean, he was sorry? Had he had a change of heart? Did he know that Edmund was innocent? Did he know that his own sons were guilty? The children didn’t suppose they would ever find out.

  “It’s only—well…,” Mr. Forrester continued, “if you ever need anything, just pop in and ask.”

  William nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Forrester.” He hesitated just a moment. “There is one thing we might ask of you.”

  Mr. Forrester looked at them expectantly.

  “May Anna please use your toilet?”

  The children trudged back to Mrs. Griffith’s, their arms aching with the weight of their parcels. Opening the door, they were greeted by the usual racket. The baby was crying, Jane and Helen were rolling over and over each other on the floor, and Penny was banging a steady rhythm on the bottom of a pot with a wooden spoon.

  Mrs. Griffith unpacked the groceries on the kitchen table. William thought it best to explain about the leeks before she got to them.

  “Who told you leeks could work as onions?”

  “The greengrocer,” William said.

  Mrs. Griffith continued to pick her way through the contents of the shopping bags, consulting the receipts as she went.

  “The liver isn’t on the slip.”

  “Right,” William answered. “We went to Mr. Forrester last, and there wasn’t enough money left, so he just gave it to us.”

  “He did what, now?”

  “He gave us the liver for free.”

  “Why would he do such a thing? Did you tell him I’d run out of money?”

  “No, ma’am. We just told him it was our first time doing the shopping, and I think he felt sorry for us. He was our last billet, you know.”

  “Just so long’s you don’t go about telling people I haven’t enough money.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Nearly two months my Bob’s been gone now, and I’ve seen hardly a coin from the army. Only so many times you can borrow from neighbors, you know.” Mrs. Griffith began putting the groceries away.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Griffith,” William whispered, “about your husband.”

  She gave no indication as to whether she had heard him, only set the tin of porridge oats on the cupboard shelf. Then she turned to Penny. “And quit that racket!” was all she said.

  A few weeks after their arrival at Mrs. Griffith’s, a letter came from Miss Collins. William read it to his brother and sister upstairs in the bedroom.

  Dear Anna, Edmund, and William,

  I was terribly glad when the post came with your letter. I suppose billets must change rather a lot, mustn’t they, with the war keeping everyone on their toes?

  My sister and I are holding up, though we’ve spent many a night in the Anderson in the back garden, and it’s all taken rather a toll on my rheumatism. I can’t complain, though, things being so very awful in London.

  I do hope the three of you are keeping well at your new billet. You didn’t say much about it in your letter. I hope all goes swimmingly with the preposterous plan.

  Fondly,

  Kezia Collins

  Preposterous plan indeed, Edmund thought. I tried to tell them it was utter nonsense.

  “What’s rheumatism?” Anna as
ked. It sounds rather like rhubarb, she thought, but surely that’s not right.

  “Something old ladies get,” Edmund answered.

  Anna looked at the letter. “It’s awful to think of Miss Collins sleeping in a hole in her sister’s back garden.”

  “A hole in the back garden might be warmer than it is here,” Edmund said.

  “Mmmm,” William murmured, his eyes gone far away. “I suppose that’s one thing we haven’t had to worry about, isn’t it? Sleeping in an Anderson shelter?”

  “Mrs. Griffith hasn’t even got one,” Anna said.

  Edmund nodded. “Probably for the best. If her Anderson was anything like her house, the smell in there would be unbearable.”

  The talk of Anderson shelters was prophetic, somehow. Late that evening, as the children lay on their pallets, the stillness of the night was broken by a monstrous sound from far away.

  Wrapping himself in his blanket, Edmund rose and went to the window, trying to peer through a tiny rip in the blackout paper. “I can’t see anything.” He used his index finger to widen the tear just an inch or so.

  Anna and William joined him as the noise continued.

  “Maybe it’s thunder,” Anna said.

  Edmund shook his head. “It’s not storming.”

  Peeking through the torn bit of paper again, the children could just make out a sort of glow on the horizon. In a different time and place, it might have been beautiful.

  “Where do you think that is?” Edmund whispered.

  William tried to keep his voice steady. “I don’t know. It could be Coventry. There’s manufacturing there, I think. Planes, munitions, that sort of thing.”

  Anna gripped William’s hand. She made no effort to mask the shaking in her voice. “Do you think they’ll bomb us here?”

  “No,” William said with as much certainty as he could muster. “They haven’t any factories here. Nothing that’s a worthy target.” It took all he had to offer Anna a bracing squeeze, lost, as he was, in his own unnamed fear.

  She squeezed back. “Should we wake Mrs. Griffith?”